Heartburn
by still.rose
Summary: He had taken her away from Sherlock. Moriarty had successfully burned the heart out of Sherlock Holmes, and the proof lay in the consulting detective's arms. Molly breathed shallowly, light ebbing out of her eyes, and all Sherlock could do was watch, terrified, as his mind screamed but his body froze, unable to do anything. Unable to even ease her pain. Post-Fall, Molly/Sherlock
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

**A/N: This is a reworking of my other Sherlock fanfic. because the mood wasn't working for me, and I wanted to write longer chapters, so hope you like this new version better! :) The story line will be a bit different, but overall, I think I really improved this. Updates every week for sure, hopefully, and maybe everyday if I can manage it. **

**Setting: The night of the fall. Molly takes Sherlock to her flat. No one knows that he faked his death except for her.**

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

* * *

He was tired, and she could tell. He had just faked his death, after all.

As Sherlock Holmes stood in the sitting room of Molly Hooper's flat, he swayed slightly on his feet, as if he was ready to fall over. Every few seconds, his eyes would close, almost like nodding off, but then, he would jolt and open them again, only to shake his head like one would when trying to clear thoughts. She wasn't sure if he even knew what she was talking about.

"There's only the one bed, but you can have it," she said quickly, glancing up at him. He was closing his eyes again. "I can sleep on the sofa. It's a rubbish sofa but it's okay...I like sleeping there. Oh. No, I don't mean that I like sleeping on rubbish. I mean...just...never mind."

He did his jolting movement again, eyes opening but not quite as electric as usual, and mumbled, "Yes, of course," and then, after taking a step forward, collapsed onto the sofa.

After a moment's hesitation, Molly covered him with a blanket after she ascertained that he was alright. She left water and food by his side, and then, dimming the lights, walked towards her bedroom, pausing to whisper, "Good night, Sherlock," before collapsing in a similar manner as the man onto her own bed.

* * *

When Molly woke up, Sherlock Holmes was still in the same position, looking very dead in the sitting room.

Water untouched, food untouched, and not even stirring as she approached him, a terrible feeling took hold of her stomach. She shook him slightly, gently, as she murmured, "Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up."

His eyelids fluttered open suddenly, and he looked frantically around, searching for something. She noticed the sheen of sweat on his forehead as he muttered, "Moriarty? Where? He was there...he had John. Mrs. Hudson. I...I couldn't do anything. I need to..."

But then understanding dawned on him, and he was quiet. "I'm dead," he said, and swallowed painfully.

Molly only nodded, not quite sure of what to say. He sat up, tossing aside his blanket, and removed the large coat that he had slept in. His usual pleasantly curled hair was a mess and looked extra unruly as he ran his fingers through it. He put his hands over his face, and took shallow breaths, breathing more and more erratically, and his whole body trembled.

"Sherlock..." Molly looked at him in alarm. Was he crying? But surely...no. Sherlock Holmes did not cry. He was immune to such normal, human reactions. He...surely, this wasn't...?

He rose up suddenly, removing his hands, gasping. "I can't breathe," he said, and his eyes were wide with terror as he began pacing the room haphazardly. "I can't breathe!" He ran to the door, fumbling with the lock, as he choked out, "Air. Need air. There's no-no air here!"

Years of being a doctor for the deceased had deadened Molly's reaction time, but the reason behind the consulting detective's sudden craze clicked inside her brain quite quickly. She approached him cautiously, as he rattled the door knob, unable to get it open in his shaking hands.

"Molly, help me..._Please_."

It hurt her, to see him beg, when he would never beg in his right mind. She shook her head, and reached out towards him, imploring him to take her hand.

"It's alright, Sherlock," she said. "You're going to be alright."

She could see him calming down, as his rational side began to take over, no doubt recognizing his own symptoms for what they were. Panic attack. Feelings of incredible anxiety usually subsiding after a short duration. But he still took her hand nevertheless, and let her lead him to the sofa where she rubbed his arm as comfortingly as he could.

"You're fine," she said, reassuring him. "It's okay. It's alright."

He stayed by her side in silence.

She didn't go to work that day.

* * *

Two weeks passed, and Sherlock did not speak more than a few words everyday. A routine had been established fairly quickly, and one that did not make her feel any better.

Molly went to work, came back from work, fed him, tried to encourage him to do something, anything, and then, when night would fall, she went to bed, and he would follow shortly afterwards, and go to sleep, dutifully, like a normal human being. Before the fall, she would have been thrilled to have had Sherlock Holmes in her bed, but this was pure convenience. No extra bed, and he could not sleep on the sofa forever.

She wished that he would mope instead. Maybe play his violin while emitting large, exaggerated sighs, but this new attitude was, well, new. New, and unwelcome. Unwanted.

Depression was a terrible thing. Depression made one lose track of the good things in life. Depression made Sherlock Holmes polite.

"Thank you," he would say, when she would lay down his dinner plate, and he would eat it. Dutifully.

"Thank you," he would say, when she would hand him a towel, and he would go take a shower. Dutifully.

"Thank you," he would say, when she would try to cheer him up by bringing in a bag of severed fingers (only for him to dispose of them when she wasn't looking), and he would smile when he got his present. Dutifully.

* * *

One month.

That night when a full thirty days had passed and Molly lay in bed beside Sherlock, she decided that things needed to change.

He had his back to her, always politely facing away and sleeping on the corner of the bed to the point that it seemed that he would fall off, although he never did. Quite the gentleman, but then, he never insisted that he sleep elsewhere. He had no thoughts, it seemed, nowadays. He only did. And always did it obediently. His breathing was even, but not even enough to fool Molly into thinking that he was yet asleep. So, she spoke, gathering all her courage, and mentioned the one thing that she hadn't dared bring up since he had seized up in panic on the first day.

"I saw John today," she said, and immediately, his back stiffened.

She waited for him to respond, but he said nothing. Was he pretending to be asleep? But then he let out a long breath, and she knew that he was listening.

"He looked sad. He looked like _you_."

Another long breath, and back still stiffer. And more silence.

"Sometimes I see John at the hospital. He visits the spot where you...jumped. I haven't told you, but I always call Lestrade. We're all afraid that he'll go over someday...that he'll make a mistake, and I'll see him...on my autopsy table."

She paused then, because Sherlock had just taken his hand and covered his mouth, as if holding back a sob. He was shaking now, but Molly knew that something was going to change.

"Why do you keep him waiting, Sherlock?"

* * *

When Molly Hooper came back from work the following day, Sherlock Holmes opened the door for her.

She gasped when he pulled her in rather roughly, slamming the door behind her, and she found herself pinned against the wall. Her face flushed when she felt his hands around her waist, and his body only separated from hers by mere centimeters.

"Sherlock...?"

He looked at her, blue eyes blazing and moving around as if searching for something. It had been so long, but she knew what he was doing instantly. He was _deducing_.

"Your nose is red. Not from the cold, no. You hit it on the way here then. You weren't looking, and walked into a pole moments ago. From the residue left on your cheeks, I can infer that you cried. Not much, if only because your eyes watered, but you stopped and sat on the steps anyways to avoid looking foolish. You're late, but you're a creature of habit, so you must have met someone here on the way. But who? A friend? No, no one close. Not even a colleague. There's dirt on your left coat sleeve. Someone grabbed your wrist. A homeless man then, who implored you for money, which you gave and he will use to buy more drugs. Oh, Molly, you mustn't be so easily persuaded."

But at that moment, Molly didn't care that he had just divulged a load of embarrassing facts about her walk home. He was back. He was Sherlock again, and his intelligence was causing her heart to beat in her chest again as nervousness filled her for the first time in a month. She did love him after all.

"Sherlock," she said again, and laughed and she saw him seem a little taken back, as if not expecting that response.

"Thank you, Molly," he breathed all of a sudden, and to her shock, pressed his lips to her forehead. "I couldn't be here...if not for you."

He looked at her, and she shyly met his gaze. He seemed hesitant, and she did not know why, until he pressed his lips against hers in a chaste kiss.

"Thank you," he said again, and wrapped his arms around her in an embrace. She didn't say anything. She understood.

* * *

"Bored," he said, a week later, as he bounced a ball off her sitting room wall for the umpteenth time.

Molly looked up from her book, and asked, "What about Moriarty's network? I thought you said that you had a lead on that."

"It was nothing," he dismissed and then frowned. "He hid everything very well."

"Shouldn't you keep looking?"

He ignored her, closing his eyes, and then asked, "John. How was he today?"

Molly shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"The same then," he said, but did not look bothered anymore. He hadn't since he had started looking. In fact, he had been acting as if the fall had never happened nor his month's depression. He hadn't acknowledged the kiss either. It seemed that it had been some sort of repayment, and now he no longer felt indebted. The thought left Molly with a pang in her chest.

He sat up suddenly from his position on the sofa, and then headed to the small wardrobe in the hallway. When he returned, he was wearing his old coat, the one that she hadn't seen since..._then_. She got up from her chair and asked cautiously, "What are you doing?"

"Going out," he answered, and for some reason, avoided looking at her as he pulled on his scarf. "If I spend another minute in this insufferable and inadequate flat, I'll go mad, and where will we all be then?"

"Sherlock," she hissed, half out of concern and half out of anger. "You know you can't go out. Especially not dressed like that."

His hands curled into fists, nostrils flaring, and his voice was strained as he spoke. "Then what am I supposed to do, Molly? I'm useless here. I need to go and investigate physically. There's evidence that I'm missing and I can't find it on your rubbish laptop!"

"I understand your frustration, Sherlock, but..." Molly faltered when she saw the look on the detective consultant's face.

"Understand?" he seethed. "Understand?" He gave a bitter laugh. "How could you possibly understand, Molly Hooper, what with your ordinariness and dull eight to five job? How could you possibly understand when you don't even know the logic of proper dress sense? Please, Molly, don't tell me you understand when you wear cherry jumpers made for toddlers...when you've never been locked up in a cage decorated with pink, frilly things for months! You can't even fathom understanding me."

Molly had no words as tears pricked at her eyes. She put her book down, one recommended by him a year ago but one that he didn't remember, and stormed into her room.

They didn't talk for days. He slept on the sofa. He didn't dare leave the flat either.

* * *

Two months passed in silence. Sherlock Holmes began to send emails to John Watson anonymously in his loneliness, sometimes pretending to be a concerned fan, and other times pretending to be a potential client, asking if John still took cases, but he never got a response. Molly noticed, but she didn't say anything. His words stung fresh every morning as she looked at her too-frilly flat for him, or wore her too toddler-like jumper, or even when she glanced at her day planner, and saw her hours from eight to five labelled as her too-ordinary job. Several times, she saw him type in a text to Mycroft Holmes, informing him that he was alive, but still never manage to press send.

Everyday she would make him breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and he would eat it, despite the silent treatment that he was receiving. Molly Hooper was angry, yes, but she was not cruel. She also wasn't sure if he knew how to cook anything. At first, he had stayed silent, and then after waiting out a few days, attempted to talk to her, smiling winningly, making remarks about how lovely her hair looked, but it was all useless. She never said anything back. She would not until he apologized, and meant it, for the feeble "sorry" that he had said after his flirting had failed, much to his shock, and as the days had worn on, he had given up, and spent his time sulking instead, just as quiet as her.

After the fifty-sixth day since they had argued, he finally dared to step into her bedroom for the first time.

She kept her eyes closed, not exactly pretending to sleep because she knew that he would know, but rather to keep herself at a distance from him. From the corner, she heard rustling, as he took off the coat that he had taken to wearing inside since winter had begun, and then slightly to her alarm, the sound of his trousers and shirt dropping to the floor.

The bed creaked as it shifted as he slipped in under the blankets, and she then felt the heat of his body against her own, as an arm wound itself around her waist and another hand buried itself in her hair. His forehead touched hers and she could feel the plane of his nose as he breathed, "I'm so sorry, Molly."

"You hurt me," she said after a long moment but kept her eyes closed.

"I know," he said, and she heard his voice crack. "I've missed you, Molly."

"I know, Sherlock. I know."

* * *

When Molly woke, he was sitting up, shirtless and bare except for his pants, and when he noticed she was awake, he lay back down and kissed her on her lips.

But this kiss was not as innocent as his first one that many months ago, and she felt his tongue, hungry for her, and she responded, just as wanting. Their bodies tangled together, and soon, his hands were on her waist, and he was hovering over her, still kissing with a tender passion when she pulled away.

"What is this?" she asked, and her eyes looked into his eyes, which were clouded with lust.

"I don't know," he said, and dove back into her mouth, "but I want you."

* * *

More months.

Every night, he would kiss her, and make love, and then sleep holding her hand, and capturing her waist. Every time, she would feel empty afterwards, when his mind would travel back to his hunts for Moran and Moriarty's network. She had him now and yet still lacked what she wanted: love.

Some days, she could pretend that he was close to being capable of such feeling, when he would be more warm in his affection, and other nights, he would be wild and rough, only hungry, and then leaving after he was sated.

"Do you love me?" she had asked once, when she had been particularly taken in the throes of passion, and he had only paused for a few moments whilst kissing her jaw to respond.

"No," he'd said, not cruelly, and then kissed her hard enough to make her toes curl.

* * *

One year had passed in Molly Hooper's care when Sherlock Holmes opened his laptop to find two blinking alerts for emails.

The first one was from John.

_Look, Sherlock, I asked you for a miracle, for you not to be dead, but it's been one year now, and I still don't know where you are._

_The cases are piling up. They seem to think that I can still help them, but I don't know what to do. I can't deduce. And my hand shakes too much nowadays._

_My therapist said to write you this letter, to sort of give an end, you know? But I don't want this to be the end. I still miss you. My hand is still aching to punch something. Anderson is still lowering the IQ of the whole building every time he walks in. I don't know how I'm supposed to counter the stupidity without you._

_I've met this nice woman, though. Her name is Mary. I know what you're thinking, Sherlock, but I think that you would like her. She hates deerstalker caps as much as you._

_Don't be dead, Sherlock. Just don't be._

_Your Friend,_

_John Watson _

Sherlock closed his eyes and did what he could only do whenever Molly Hooper was at work and he was utterly alone.

He cried.

He cried with sobs that wracked his entire body, because he knew, he knew that it would be many more months until he would be back in 221b Baker Street, as he was only halfway through identifying Moriarty's network, and still had no clue as to where Moran was. He cried, if only to let out the stress that constantly swarmed his brain, just so that he could function a little bit better.

Blindly through his tears, he opened his second email, almost wishing that it would be John again, maybe writing to say that he had completely moved on, just so Sherlock could feel a bit of relief, but what he saw instead made his mind scream.

It was from Molly.

And it was heinous.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

* * *

**Please review. It would be much appreciated! And let me know what you think of this compared to the first version. I quite like this one better. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arthur Conan Doyle's works nor that of BBC Sherlock.**

**A/N: Thank you to Rocking the Redhead, crooney83, Goodbye Mr Holmes, megsterleigh, Freewaygirl, and BlueMoonMaples for the reviews! I haven't had the time to respond to them, but trust me, I appreciate them lots, and will get to them soon as possible, and as always, I keep all of your suggestions in mind as I write. **

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

* * *

Blindly through his tears, he opened his second email, almost wishing that it would be John again, maybe writing to say that he had completely moved on, just so Sherlock could feel a bit of relief, but what he saw instead made his mind scream.

It was from Molly.

And it was heinous.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

* * *

Molly Hooper hid her face deeper behind her scarf as she walked home alone in the snow.

It was late, her having switched to night shifts last month, and the only source of comfort on this chilly night were the various types of Christmas lights hanging around the neighbouring houses. Overall, the atmosphere could not be lovelier for a late night stroll but this did not make her any less cautious. In fact, she was usually overly paranoid at most times, having lost her mother in a brutal murder that had remained unsolved. She had been young; it had inspired her to become a pathologist, in the hopes of helping others find out what had happened to their loved ones.

Distracted by these thoughts, she didn't notice the man standing in the darkness of the alleyway that she was passing until he had wrapped his hand around her mouth and dragged her in.

Heart thundering in her chest, she screamed and lashed out, trying to kick him and get away, but when she looked up and saw the second man, sitting in a chair that seemed to have been brought earlier, she stilled.

Wearing a black coat reminiscent of Sherlock was James Moriarty, smiling like a fiend.

"Hi, Molly," he said, lips curling into a toothy grin. "Long time no see, darling."

"Jim," she gasped, voice still muffled by the other man holding her. Moriarty gave a nod and the man removed his hand, instead holding her arms behind her back. "Y-You're supposed to be dead."

"Oh, Molly," the consulting criminal sighed, and gave her an exaggerated sad face. "Molly, Molly, Molly. Don't be so naïve. I _saw_ the videos, Molly. I know he's there. It made me so unhappy. You never gave me as much love as you did him. You broke my heart!"

Moriarty let out a fake sob as Molly's eyes widened. She reeled with disgust as she realized exactly what the horrible man before her had seen. Her and Sherlock in their most intimate moments...

"H-How long h-have you known?" she stuttered. It had been a year. Not once had Sherlock Holmes left her home. There had been no risks taken. So how could this monster have found them so fast?

"Oh, I knew, Molly, dearest, from the moment our Sherlock walked on to that roof. He forgot how stupid he was. You see, that's what Angels do. They forget the Demon is willing to do more to win the game. And our stupid Sherlock forgot _all_ of the cameras. The ones in the morgue. The ones at Baker Street. And the ones in _your_ home, Molly, because I always keep what's _mine_. He was _so_ overconfident. He didn't even bother checking my body."

Moriarty gave a wild laugh when he noticed the poor pathologist shudder in fear. There was a moment of silence as the criminal took out his phone and accessed the email button, typing in a short message before pressing send. The quiet extended on as he looked her over, and Molly felt as if she was naked in front of him. His eyes roved over every bit of her, as if he knew every place she had been touched by Sherlock, and the idea seemed to delight him. It made her furious.

"Why bide your time?"

The glee vanished from Moriarty's face. It darkened, and shifted into an expression that seemed to go beyond every inch of madness as he said, "_The game changed,_" and then in the span of three seconds, his exterior shifted yet again, as he sang out, "But it's o-kay-ay! Because Sherlock's going to get a present today, Molly, and it's going to be you-oo!"

"W-What?" Her eyes widened in fear, expecting a gunshot or being burned alive or anything insane she could think of as death-inducing, but instead, Moriarty sat down in his chair and merely took out his mobile phone and a light turned on as he seemingly began to record a video.

"Have fun, Molly, and make sure you bleed lots' on the snow! Wouldn't want Sherlock to think you were okay now, would we?"

Molly Hooper only had a few seconds to stare in confusion and fear at the camera before terror-filled understanding came to her as the man who held her captive threw her to the ground and ripped the buttons off her shirt.

Moriarty watched and smiled.

* * *

_I will burn the heart out of you._

Sherlock Holmes needed no clarification as to what the message meant, but his mind was numb. Horrifically, terribly numb.

"Molly..."

His unconscious uttering of her name on his lips seemed to jerk him back to his senses, and within moments, he had grabbed his coat and scarf, and run out into the real world without a spare thought to his blow of cover or even brief wonderment to the fact that despite not stepping outside for a full year, he felt no different with the cold air stinging his cheeks or the wind ruffling up his hair. His only thought was of her. Her and all of what Moriarty could do.

That was when his phone rang.

"Too-oo late, Sherlock," came the sing-song voice on the other end, and that was all. The line cut, and the alert of an incoming text sounded inside. A video.

_"Have fun, Molly, and make sure you bleed lots' on the snow!" Moriarty's voice crooned. "Wouldn't want Sherlock to think that you were okay now, would we?"_

_Molly Hooper stared into the camera in terror before she was flung to the ground by another man. She screamed, but it appeared that no one in the vicinity heard anything as the man tore the poor pathologist's clothes to shreds. For a moment, as the man struggled with the belt on his own pants, Molly took her chance and kicked him in the face, but he grabbed her by the hair, and pushed inside her while he had one knife at her throat._

_"Smile for the camera, Molly," Moriarty said, "It might just be your last."_

The video ended with a cry from the violated woman, begging for it to all stop.

* * *

He found her after fifteen minutes, following a trail of blood right back to her flat. They'd brought her back to exactly where he had first left to go look for her, taunting him now of all of the lost time searching.

Her naked and bleeding body had been stuffed into a rubbish bin.

She looked dead.

"_Molly_..."

When he pulled her out, and wrapped her in his arms, she felt like a dead weight. Her body was cold and wet from being pummelled into the snow, and the video must have stopped before the end of her ordeal, because unlike what he had seen, it was covered in purple bruises and carved into her back and thighs was a message: _To Sherlock from your Dear Friend, James Moriarty. I.O.U., after all._ He couldn't take her pulse because he was trembling all over, and then he couldn't see as his sight become blurred with tears.

For the first time, Sherlock Holmes hated himself.

He'd used her, crawling into her warmth and using her as a tool with which to stay connected with the outside world. She'd let him take and take, and he'd taken and taken ruthlessly. First his depression, selfishly dwelling in his own problems, pitying himself because he couldn't solve crimes and live like he wanted to, and then his boredom which he'd cured through her, sating himself through lust. She was more than a friend, he realized. She was a lover, and he wanted nothing more now than to be her lover.

"Please, Molly," he heard himself say, "let me have just one more thing...just you, _please_."

He pressed her closer to himself, but she was just a corpse.

A corpse until she took her first shuddering breath.

* * *

When Molly woke, she woke with strong arms wrapped around her, and the angry voices of an argument taking place.

"Really, dear brother, when I realized that you were alive, I was shocked at how careless you had been. Did you not expect me to monitor your accounts? That very first day that you accessed your email, I knew immediately. In fact, I even came personally to peer into the window, and lo and behold, there you were, sitting in blank point range of any assassin that Moriarty could have hired. I gave you your space, brother, but it is time to come home now, and work from an angle which does not involve this new woman," Mycroft admonished, and then in an afterthought, with a slightly miffed tone, he added, "It took for her safety to be threatened to call your own brother?"

"Her safety _was_ threatened," Sherlock hissed, "and I'm not coming with you, Mycroft. I called you for a medical team, not your blatant disregard for humanity. I couldn't take her to a hospital myself; they would...touch her. _He _could get to her again and I wouldn't be near her..."

"Look at you, Sherlock," Mycroft spoke softly. "Do you hear yourself? The woman is fine. There has been no lasting damage...physically, at least. You could have seen that for yourself, had you calmed down before making your call. And it not my fault that you drove the medical team that I brought to you away. She has been raped. Naturally, they would take samples for evidence. Nevertheless, I suppose it is all for the better. I planned to make your acquaintance later this evening myself. It _has_ been a year, after all."

Sherlock took in a sharp intake of breath at the older Holmes' words, as if about to angrily retort, when Molly breathed, "Sherlock..."

She felt his body still, if only for a moment, before the grip around her tightened slightly more so, as he whispered, "Molly. Are you...? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Her eyes opened slowly and she took in his face, eyes tight with worry, the muscles in his neck tense. But she was so tired that she closed them again.

The last word she heard before she slipped back into darkness was Mycroft Holmes' bitter and scoffing remark.

"_Sentiment_."

* * *

She was in her bed, lying down on her stomach, no doubt to avoid her the pain of lying down on her injured back, and he was in a chair next to her, eyes closed.

His knuckles were bandaged, as if he had punched something in a rage. In fact, maybe more than once, and there was a large bruise on the left side of his forehead, dark purple and angry-looking.

His eyes must have not been completely closed because somehow, he knew she'd been looking at the bruise, and said, "Mycroft's cane. He hit me after I tried shattering his jaw." He leaned closer, and after hesitating for a second, brushed his fingers through her hair before he said coldly, "He's dead. Moriarty's man. I destroyed him."

He saw her wince at the word _destroyed_ before she turned her back to him, and said, "_Please_ just stop."

He granted her request, although he did not know why.

* * *

One month passed, and Molly's scars had faded away. Deeper scars remained, Sherlock noticed, because when he would try to kiss her or hold her in his arms, she would flinch and turn away.

"I don't want that anymore, Sherlock," she told him one day. "You don't love me. I don't need to satisfy you anymore."

He'd been reduced to speechlessness, not quite sure how to tell her how changed he felt, and it would be another fifteen days (of sleeping on the sofa now) after visiting his mind palace over and over again until he came to the startling conclusion. She no longer loved him.

Sherlock did not know why his heart felt like it burned then.

Perhaps it was because she was hurt.

And she was his heart, after all.

* * *

The first hint from Moriarty regarding their new game came when Molly was in the shower.

_O cruel Alexis, have you no time for my tunes?_

_No pity for us? You'll be the death of me at last._

Sherlock threw his phone on to the ground.

The bastard.

He had no use for such pointless drivel.

* * *

"Sherlock," Molly called from her room in the middle of the night, and Sherlock woke immediately, heart pounding.

"Molly," he said, and rushed in quickly. "Are you alright?"

"Come to bed," she said sleepily. "Stop sleeping on the sofa. I still love you."

He did not know what change had occurred, but Sherlock found that he did not care.

"You are my heart, Molly Hooper," he told her. "You are my heart."

And then he kissed her.

* * *

When Sherlock Holmes awoke, it was to a cold bed. He turned on the lamp that sat on the bedside table, and he took in a sharp breath.

She was gone, and in her place, was a taunting message written in blood.

_Right under your nose._

A few moments later, his phone buzzed.

_Think of it as an incentive, princess_.

He didn't need to test to know that the blood was hers.

Sherlock felt the burning in his heart again.

* * *

**This chapter was sort of hard to write. Writer's block, it seems. Anyways, please do review as your comments keep me going, and feel free to Brit-pick :) I'm not British so I think I've probably got a few errors in the language. I'm not American either though so I think the spelling at least will be okay. Anyways, let me know, and until next time then! I think next chapter might just be the last one.**


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